


Knowing You

by Mirimea



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Facials, Future Fic, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Hand Jobs, M/M, Odd, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirimea/pseuds/Mirimea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once he is back home again Kevin tries to start a new life, only to realize that it’s hard to re-evaluate everything you thought you knew about himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing You

**Author's Note:**

> This is an attempt to respond to a kink meme prompt: Kevin Price (canon or AU) finds solace from his failures and past abuse (sexual, physical, and emotional) in drag.

Kevin doesn’t recognize Connor McKinley until they physically run into each other under the dim lights in the corridor leading to the bathrooms, the bass from the music on the dance floors vibrating in the walls. He hasn’t seen Elder McKinley since he had left Uganda a few months before Kevin’s own mission had come to an end and he looks--well, he mostly looks a bit drunk, to be honest, which is a strange look on someone that Kevin remembers as responsible and cheerful.

He squints at Kevin, looking confused, and Kevin knows that there is faint recognition there, but no realization. Kevin lifts a hand to his face self-consciously, suddenly all too aware of the mascara and the lipstick and the feeling of freedom he had felt ten minutes ago is quickly being replaced with a burning sense of shame.

He prepares to step aside and make his escape when Elder McKinley makes a strange face, pressing a hand to his mouth.

“Aww, jeez, _no_.” Kevin grimaces and backs away, in case Elder McKinley decides to blow chunks all over Kevin’s shoes and sleek dress, then pulls himself together and takes hold of McKinley’s arm to drag him into the bathroom, pushing him towards the sinks.

McKinley stumbles after him and grabs the edge of the sink. He seems to struggle with himself for a while, swallowing thickly and Kevin sympathetically looks away; he had only gotten drunk _once_ and while he had liked the extra courage it had given him he had not been very fond of the _lack of shame_ , and he had decided that he very much preferred to remain sober.

What is Elder McKinley doing here anyway? Kevin had always pegged him as a musicals and old-school movies and romantic dinners-type of guy, not someone to frequent gay clubs.

\--but then, no one had probably ever pegged _him_ as someone to frequent this kind of place, either, and yet here he is, if only because it is the only place when he feels that he _can_ go, outside, when he is made up like this. And besides, people _like_ him here, and Kevin likes it when people admire him, especially like this.

McKinley spits into the sink, then turns the water on and bends down to wash his face, reaching blindly for some paper towels that Kevin had to hand him. McKinley takes them and dries his face, meeting Kevin’s eyes in the mirror, smiling weakly. “Thanks.” And then, “Umm, aren’t you in the wrong--” and a blush. “Oh.”

Kevin finds himself grinning despite everything; McKinley must be _really_ drunk if he thinks Kevin, over six feet tall and broad-shouldered and obviously flat-chested under the dress, can actually _pass_. “I belong in the same bathroom as you, thank you very much.”

His voice sounds different when he is Kevin and when he is _someone else_ , but now it has changed back into Kevin’s pitch and he both sounds and feels awkward for it.

McKinley’s eyes widen and the recognition _finally_ turns into realization. “ _Elder Price_?”

Kevin glances at himself in the mirror; the makeup is almost garish but in a way that he likes it to be; at least in a way that he likes to wear it in a place like _this_. It makes his face look softer and his lips fuller, but now he is forced back into being Kevin Price and that makes it all feel _wrong_.

He frowns at himself. “I guess.”

* * *

Starting from a blank slate as Kevin Price is _hard_. Kevin Price is the kind of person to get uncomfortable when people are different. He plays mini-golf and lights the grill with his father, he loves Disney and Monopoly and is frustrated that he is never as good at soccer as he (and his father) wishes.

And--Kevin Price is a failure. He is disgraced, violated, and humiliated, and that will remain with him forever. The people in Uganda _know_ this, because the General likes to brag, and because everyone had _seen_ Kevin fail so resoundingly. His parents are disappointed in him and it is _difficult_ to be Kevin Price and somehow still try to re-evaluate everything that he thought he had known about life and what he is supposed to be and do.

It had been okay in Uganda because he had been too busy to have to face reality then; he had simply gone along with how everything turned out and tried to be happy with it. It is more difficult when he gets back home and he realizes that he can’t _be_ who he used to be anymore.  

Starting from a blank slate as _someone else_ is easier, then.

When he lies in bed at night in his tiny studio apartment he finds a state where he is _empty_. He is _no one_ in the darkness, and that is comforting until he starts to think about who he _can_ be.

What does he want to do if he doesn’t have to be Kevin Price?

It is a strange exercise for the mind, one that brings him close to everything that has been forbidden to him. Can he be allowed to be _mean_ , sometimes? Can he say _no_ just because he feels like it? Can he keep himself from biting his nails when he is stressed? Or can he be someone who doesn’t _get_ stressed?  How does he laugh, and move, and talk?

He can never _escape_ from Kevin Price, but maybe he can be _someone else_ , sometimes.

* * *

The teenager behind the counter in the fast food restaurant gives him a suspicious look--Kevin stares back, because what else can he do?—before grabbing his tray and following McKinley to a table.

“Feeling better?” he asks, pushing one of the two sodas over to McKinley’s side of the table. “It’s not even that late, why are you _drunk_ already?”

McKinley looks dazed, still, but accepts the soda gratefully. He can’t stop staring, and it makes Kevin frown. “I don’t know. This is my first time.” He pauses. “The first time I’m drinking, I mean.”

“Well, hurry up and sober up. I can’t put you in a taxi like this. Who knows where you’d end up, and how much you’d owe the driver.”

Elder McKinley keeps staring, however, until Kevin feels his cheeks begin to burn. He brings his drink to his lips and when he puts it down again he notices that he has left a ring of lipstick around the straw. He brushes a hand through his hair, awkwardly. “Well? You’re not going to ask?”

“I don’t know _what_ to ask,” McKinley replies, which is a pretty good point, coming from someone that is drunk for the first time in his life. Then he leans forward and rests his face in his hands. “My head hurts,” he mutters through his fingers.

Hopefully it’s the alcohol and not the confusion of seeing a former missionary friend dressed more or less in drag that is causing the headache. Kevin sighs and bites into a French fry. “Good, because I don’t know how to explain.” McKinley looks depressingly pitiful, and it makes something in Kevin’s chest sort of squeeze because he doesn’t like that look on his former district leader. “Drink up, and if you tell me your address, I’ll help you home.”

* * *

 

It is a gradual slip, equal parts wonderful and terrifying. The empty side of Kevin feels drab in khakis and shirts, so he fumbles in the dark for a while until he allows himself to follow the pull towards anything flashy; he has always liked everything cheerful and theatrical and _fun_.

“You are so sweet,” Gina says, looking for a moment like she would like to pinch his cheek. He had met her in a second hand store where he had hoped to be unsuspicious, but she had pretty much caught him in the act and had helped him find clothes that suited him without judgement even when he had stammered and mostly wanted to escape, so she is allowed to _know_.

Kevin ducks his head, feels his ears burn. “I’m like, a foot and a half taller than you. I’m not _sweet_.”

She does pinch his cheek then, probably only because she _can_ without stretching too far, since they are both sitting down. “Oh, but you _are_.”

He bats her hand away and scowls, mostly because he _likes_ to be called sweet, and that pisses him off.

* * *

 

McKinley contacts him on Facebook four days later. They’ve been friends ever since Kevin returned from his mission but they’ve never messaged each other before. Kevin notices the message when he is taking a break from the essay he is trying to write, and stares at it for a moment.

Connor McKinley: I’m sorry about the other night. Wasn’t my best moment.

Kevin considers not answering; he has tried to forget about what happened because it had thrown him back into a stifling feeling of shame that he had mostly managed to escape from by now. But that’s—well, Kevin _likes_ McKinley, and if there is one person that he would allow to find out, it would probably be him. And that is saying something because _Arnold_ is Kevin’s best friend, but there are some things you just can’t talk about, even with best friends.

Kevin Price: It’s fine. Maybe stay away from alcohol in the future.

Connor McKinley: I’ll never drink again.

A pause. Then,

Connor McKinley: I just wanted to try it sometime. I didn’t like it much.

Connor McKinley: Can I ask you now?

Even in the privacy in his own home, Kevin feels his cheeks heat up. He waits for a moment, then decides that he doesn’t know how to answer any question. Going from broad-shouldered and handsome, someone he know that McKinley maybe even had a crush on at one point, to a—he doesn’t know _what_ he is, exactly, hurts almost as much as the knowledge that he is a failure.

Kevin Price: No. I just like it.

Connor McKinley: Okay.

* * *

 

No one that knows who _Kevin Price_ is can know (except Gina); Kevin himself is tugged between delight and shame, sometimes within the same hour, especially when his experiments at home fail and he feels _ugly_. He even _cries_ sometimes, frustrated and angry, because if _he_ doesn’t know who he is, is he really anyone at all?

He tries to read up about _it_ online, but he doesn’t really feel _wrong_ in his own body like most people claim to do, and he has never even allowed himself to feel _different_. He just—he _likes_ it, and he is pretty sure that he is not _supposed_ to, _Kevin Price_ certainly is not supposed to. But maybe that is the entire point of all this.

At first it gives him a thrill to put on a dress, and it eventually wanes into something more comfortable and nice (as long as he doesn’t look in the mirror). He feels _different_ in a good way, pleased and proud and he walks differently, feels differently, _thinks_ differently.

And once he figures out his sizes he begins to buy more things, mostly online, he’ll allow himself to wear them more and more often, in the privacy of his own apartment.

It takes a long time before he dares to go outside wearing a dress, and then, it is only because Gina suggests the gay bar and shows him pictures from the dance floor to prove that there are other men like him there. And Kevin hates to dance and he hates alcohol and he dislikes the music, but what he does like is that he can be _someone else_ there. And some people there _like_ him, admire him, even, and if there is one thing that Kevin likes, whether he is Kevin Price or someone else, it is _admiration_. 

* * *

 

Connor McKinley somehow works his way back into Kevin’s life before Kevin figures out what is happening—not that he thinks he actually wants to protest. But it is strange, because Kevin doesn’t know who to be around him, anymore, and Connor himself is different from what he remembers.

He is equal parts uncertain and saucy, proper and flamboyant. He calls people ‘sweetie’, Kevin included, and he shimmies along with the music on the radio. He is confident one moment and awkward the other and he still have violent nightmares, which Kevin knows because Connor sleeps at his place, sometimes.

They kiss sometimes, too, which is strange, because while Kevin has kissed boys before by now, he has never done it as _Kevin Price_. At least he _thinks_ that he does it as Kevin Price; it’s hard to tell when it is with someone who has seen him as someone else.  

Connor is fascinated with Kevin’s collection of makeup and he _loves_ the glitter, and he doesn’t seem to mind, even though Kevin suspects that he doesn’t quite _understand_.

But that is okay. Kevin doesn’t understand it, either.

* * *

 

Kevin likes: eyeliner and lip pencils and rouge, garters and Disney and smooth dresses, he likes to play mini-golf and he likes to read and he likes jeans and simple modest skirts and animated movies and Sunday roasts and he likes it when people like _him_.

Kevin doesn’t like: high heels and nail-polish, wigs and tight skirts, concealer that makes his skin look crusty, soccer and barbeques; he doesn’t like yellow or ribbons or lace and he doesn’t like to feel ugly or lonely or _stupid_.

* * *

 

“What’s this?” Connor asks, running his fingers over the fabrics, and Kevin feels his cheeks begin to burn because that’s just—those are the dresses he never wears outside of home. They’re not his _costumes_ ; they’re just the regular dresses and skirts that he can’t pull off because he is not built for them, not really. He can wear them at home sometimes as long as he doesn’t look in the mirror and that’s _enough_.

“Nothing,” he says—too quickly—and Connor raises an eyebrow.

“Okay.” He pulls out a few hangers and studies some of the dresses thoughtfully. “I like this one.” He holds up a light blue one.

Kevin feigns disinterest, thumbing at his phone aimlessly.

“—Want to put it on?”

He lowers his phone. “It doesn’t suit me.” It has been several months since they had met, and he _knows_ that Connor knows, but it is still so difficult to talk about.

“What about this one, then?” Connor gives him a pleading look that makes Kevin’s heart speed up because he can’t resist it.

And that is how he ends up taking off his regular jeans and his t-shirt and he slips into the dress, pretty and sensible and very much like something his sister would wear, maybe, or any other good young Mormon woman. He feels naked without makeup or a jacket or something to make him more _right_ and he shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another once he lets Connor see him.

“Satisfied?” he asks, then holds out his arms to let Connor _see_. “It’s not--”

Connor steps forward and kisses him, and it surprises Kevin so much that he very nearly steps away. But Connor kisses him so sweetly, and strangely, Kevin doesn’t feel like anyone else but himself, and it feels _right_ despite everything.

That is new.

Connor steps closer and fits nicely in Kevin’s arms. He feels his body respond to the proximity; he is growing hard and pressing against the dress. Thankfully Connor is there to press his palm against him, providing pleasuring friction, his eyes intrigued, before beginning to slip his hands beneath the skirt of his dress slowly.

Kevin can feel Connor’s own hardness against his thigh, but is too preoccupied with the way Connor’s hand dips beneath the waistband of his underwear, pushing them down to his thighs.

“This is hot,” Connor says, sounding like he is a bit surprised by it, but he is no less sincere. “You’re hot.” He pauses and looks a bit confused. “You look really good like this.”

He wraps his hand around Kevin’s cock and that’s just— _too_ intense; Kevin’s hips buck forward, into Connor’s grip, his hands gripping onto Connor’s shoulders.

“Oh my _gosh_ ,” he says, and then Connor’s hand tightens experimentally and begins to _move_. “ _Oh_ , oh.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Connor confesses. “Tell me if I’m doing something wrong.”

Kevin groans at that, and Connor’s hand falters for a moment before tightening again and moving faster and faster and Kevin feels his cheeks burn. This is too _much_ , too private, he is wearing a dress and—and he has never been this exposed before in his entire _life_.

He tries to kiss Connor, but his mind isn’t quite in it, so instead he rests his head against Connor’s shoulder, feeling his body quiver as all of the sensations reach a peak and he comes, probably over Connor’s hand and perhaps his own dress. It is terrible but mostly wonderful and his body feels slack. “Oh.”

“Was it okay?” Connor says, sounding worried for some strange reason, as though he hadn’t just made Kevin’s knees want to give up on him. “Are you okay?”

He withdraws his hands from beneath Kevin’s skirt; it’s still hunched up around his thighs but it keeps him decent, which is a relief; he doesn’t feel very sexy once the desire leaves his body.

“Yeah,” Kevin mumbles, pulling his underwear back up and smoothing his skirt down. Is this what it feels like to be debauched? He could learn to like it—but he can feel and see Connor’s dick strain against his pants, still, and that is just—not right.

He cups it experimentally with his hand; he has done _that_ with several guys at the club but no one has melted quite as sweetly into the touch as Connor just now, nor has Kevin done anything more than that, _especially_ not when he is in this strange land between personalities.

He begins to unbutton and unzip Connor’s pants; Connor’s hands come down to help him even though it is not necessary, until his pants and underwear are bunched up around his thighs.

Kevin only hesitates for a second, then he takes Connor’s dick in his palm and sinks to his knees, glancing at Connor’s face for long enough to see his mouth open in surprise.

“You don’t have to--” Connor says, then breaks off into a moan when Kevin takes his cock into his hand again and begins to stroke, before leaning forward to wrap his lips around the head.

It tastes—not great, a bit like sweat and something else that is weird, but the strange sound that escapes from Connor’s lips is enough to make it worth it. He uses his tongue a bit, and his lips a lot, and tries to figure out if he can maybe blow hot breath against him. Connor is too large for him to take in all at once, sadly, but at least he can lick the length of it; Connor’s hands come up to hold onto Kevin’s hair and _huh_ , that’s strangely nice.

He makes an effort to follow along with what Connor indicates with his hands, even tries to go deeper than is possible and he ends up coughing and sputtering and drooling for it as he tries to catch his breath. Maybe it’s good that he’s not wearing makeup; it would definitely be smeared by now.

“Sorry, sorry,” Connor groans. “It’s just—oh _my_.”

Kevin speeds up; then finally Connor pulls him away, wrapping his own hand around his dick. It miffs Kevin a little and he opens his mouth to protest, but then a streak of Connor’s cum hits his cheek beneath his eye, then more at the corner of his mouth, and that shuts him up.

Connor’s eyes are wide and his cheeks are red with the strain of the past few minutes. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I couldn’t— _sorry_.”

Kevin wipes the cum away with the back of his hand, making a face. “It’s fine.”

He remains there on his knees for a while, catching his breath while Connor awkwardly tucks himself back into his pants. His lips feel almost sore and he is tired, but finally, he raises himself to his feet again, feeling more exposed than before in the dress he is wearing.

“I’m going to get changed,” he mutters and turns to walk away, but is stopped by Connor’s hand around his arm.

“Not unless you want to.” Connor looks at him sincerely, cheeks still flushed. “Maybe we can watch a movie. Or are you cold? But you have blankets, right?” He trails off, eyes on Kevin’s face. “We should get cleaned up, though.”

Kevin raises his clean hand to rub at his cheek again. “It’s fine. I _want_ to.” It’s the truth. He feels wrong in his own skin now, he is too much _Kevin Price_ to quite like it, but that _is_ fine, for now. As long as he knows that he has the alternative, when anything else feels unbearable.

His hand comes down, covered in more white smears, and he grimaces again before taking Connor’s hand and tugging. “You’re right, we _should_ get cleaned up.”

“Mm,” Connor replies, sounding pleased, and follows him to the bathroom.


End file.
